In Time
by lythraceae
Summary: There's a note, the yellow standing out from the white and red. The echoes of a life long gone, she can only dream and forget.
1. Prologue

**Warning:** This story discusses problematic mental health (depression, schizophrenia, dissociation) and successful suicide.

I wanted to explore character creation. I wanted to explore character development, on already created characters and my own creations.

I wanted to be able to write a person and create life, and I wanted to make them a little too different, a little too strange. A little too much.

This is an OC-insert, reincarnated into the world of Twilight. She does not care about the Cullens, they do not care about her, and then things happen.

I want to call her morally grey/dark, but I haven't even gotten anywhere in regards to (essential Twilight-related) plot, so she might not be either.

The story starts right before the Cullens move to town, and it will end depending on how emotionally invested I become in this story.

* * *

 **Prologue**

* * *

 _News and gossip travel quickly._

* * *

Forks. It's a small and secluded town, the people live out their lives here. The grandparents, great-grandparents, parents, have all grown up together, each generation popping out children. It's almost like the entire city is creating an incestuous family, but with thrice-removed cousins marrying each other instead, so there is a far enough degree of separation.

Every now and again new people will move to town, bringing dreams of a new start and then realizing how the city works too late, thus becoming another drone in the production line.

* * *

Mum was one of those years ago.

Then, she birthed me.

* * *

 _Even if you lock yourself in, it is like the plants and animals whisper._

* * *

There's a little girl running through the kitchen, bare feet hitting the tiles paving the floor, giggling and shrieking, as happy as can be. Her cheeks are flushed, hair in complete disarray. She's smaller than the average kid, and looks about five.

Her mother, most likely her mother, catches her, swings her up into the air, smiling just as wide as the child. The father, much more stoic, but the touch of warmth in his eyes shows just how happy he is to be there.

Then she's a teen, the girl still as happy as can be, smiling wide, mouth full of braces. She's caught a growth spurt, the last one she'll ever have.

She's running, again, but this time it's on a track. She's sprinting, as free as a bird, friends and family cheering her on in the bleachers.

And there's the end of her life.

Knife through her jugular, lying in a bathtub, the steady sound of blood dripping down the drain.

She looks even smaller than her five year old self.

* * *

There's a note, the yellow standing out from the white and red.

 _Hi, it's me._

 _I can't stand myself anymore, please..._

* * *

 _Particularly if there's news about a supermodel family moving to town._

* * *

But those are echoes of a life long gone, a pipe dream, nothing to be touched upon because no matter how hard she looks she can never find anyone from that time.

All the extras, not just reality, no more creativity.

She can only dream and forget.

* * *

Dream, then forget.

* * *

 _But hearing is one thing, seeing and believing are two more._


	2. Chapter 1: Achromatopsia

Whenever I look into a mirror, there is always a sense of wrongness. Like how my hair isn't supposed to be that shade of black, how my eyes aren't supposed to be grey, how my body just isn't supposed to look like that.

The feeling doesn't end there, it is present in every aspect of my life.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger stuffed into this body. But then again, I've never trusted my instincts.

It's kind of hard to, when I see and hear people where there are supposed to be none.

* * *

Apparently when my parents decided that it was time for me to start learning my colors, I couldn't tell anything apart, and they didn't think anything was wrong, up until they asked what color I liked most.

I couldn't name the darn block that had the perfect shade of grey.

Color is a weird concept. I know how I see the colors of a rainbow, I know what they look like, but I can't actually see them. It's ridiculous, what artist only does charcoal drawings, pencil sketches, and monochromatic paintings?

Me, that's who.

If I have to use color, the colors have to be labeled, and someone has to be my eyes to tell me if the color is too strong, or too watery.

I tried painting without having someone to guide me around once. Mum said it looked like I'd never seen color before, and was trying to get as much color onto a canvas as possible. Like a starving man at a buffet table, trying to get to as much as he can.

But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, no?

It looked fantastic to me.

* * *

My parents say that when I was born I screamed and cried louder than any other baby they'd ever seen. They said that they were expecting me to be just as loud as I grew up, and that eventually I would be a leader. Someone who's voice was always heard over the hubbub of activity.

It explains why they felt the need to ask me if anything was wrong every day after I started dreaming and becoming aware. Nobody undergoes a huge change overnight with no outside influence. I was not supposed to be suddenly selectively mute. I was not supposed to be aware of how to discern colors, as all I could actively see was shades of grey.

I was almost normal (even if I didn't know what colors looked like); I didn't have dreams with familiar strangers in them.

And then I did.

I dreamed and forgot those dreams when I woke. Then went to sleep at night and continued to dream some more. Impossible dreams, of things uninvented, of books not written, of lives not lived. Not yet.

My parents say that being normal is overrated. But how am I supposed to know that? There is no manual that pronounces someone as unnatural. I am as normal as anyone can be. Just as flawed as any other human is.

Maybe a bit more flawed, but my parents say that I am their version of a perfect child.

* * *

Perfection… is not the same for everyone. Of course not, we all see things in different ways, and there are an infinite number of permutations of perfect.

Just because we all live in the same universe doesn't mean we see the same things in the same way. It's why wars are fought. Disagreements are common, they are a part of our nature.

If someone ever asks me what my idea of a perfect life would be, I think they would be surprised by how simple my answer is.

But I am not living my perfect life, right now.

Otherwise, the world wouldn't be so grey all the time.

* * *

Medication doesn't help. It goes in, comes out, and it's really just another part of my routine. And it's not like I have many friends. What's my mum supposed to tell other parents? Something like, "Oh, my daughter's fine, she just might strangle your child because someone only she can see tells her to."?

I was not invited to social events. Of course, that meant that I was mostly a recluse, talking to my parents, and Cassandra and Wilhelm, and anyone else who decided to pop by for a visit.

Wilhelm is aesthetically extremely pleasing. As far as I can tell, he's got medium colored hair and pale skin. Add to that some striking eyes, groomed eyebrows, gorgeous sculpted cheekbones, and a Greek nose.

On the other hand, Cassandra is plainer, but she has beautiful features on a plain face. Which is strange sounding, but true. Her mouth, if a little larger and less downturned naturally, her nose, slightly thinner and taller, her eyes set a little deeper.

* * *

Will and Cassie are quite honestly the greatest friends one could have. They've never left me, not even when I have fits. They are always there for me, at my doctors appointments, my recitals, my birthday parties.

"Figments of your imagination," Dr. Theo says, "They will tell you things. They might even tell you that you want to do something you don't actually want to do. Don't."

I did, once. Sort of, I guess.

A little bird, a baby finch, had fallen out of its nest.

"Save it," said Cassie. "It's a little bird, there's absolutely no harm in doing so."

"Save it," Will scoffed. "And disregard what diseases it might bring? There's no need to do anything."

* * *

Suffice to say, I ignored the bickering and went inside to get some gloves. To mostly save the baby bird, anyway. I put the gloves on and scooped the finch up and got some scraped knees climbing the tree. Too much of a hassle, I thought getting a ladder was.

I was obviously wrong, but I had already embarrassed myself beyond belief, trying and failing miserably to climb the tree. So I continued to embarrass myself. On purpose.

"You're an idiot, Cyndi," Will decides to point out the obvious. "But, props to you, being a smart-ass and getting gloves."

Cassie giggles, "We should have thought of that too, huh?"


End file.
